


Love Shack

by shiverfawkes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: B-52s, Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, Fluff, Hall and Oates, Love Confessions, M/M, Musical References, Parentlock, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 19:14:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16838722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiverfawkes/pseuds/shiverfawkes
Summary: “If you see a faded sign at the side of the road-““That says fifteen miles to the-““-Love shack!”Sherlock walked up the seventeen stairs to 221b Baker Street, with a mixture of confusion and amusement of his face.





	Love Shack

**Author's Note:**

> I legit come up with all my ideas by talking to myself and walking around the downstairs of my house. This happened when I was tidying the kitchen. 
> 
> I'm really fucking ill. 
> 
> ENJOY

_“If you see a faded sign at the side of the road-“_

“That says fifteen miles to the-“

“- _Love shack!”_

Sherlock walked up the seventeen stairs to 221b Baker Street, with a mixture of confusion and amusement of his face. John was doing the dishes then, or tidying the kitchen rather. Rosie was away at nursery for the afternoon, he and John would be out to pick her up in half an hour. So, supposedly, the doctor thought he’d tidy up a bit.

He never seemed to do so without music. Always old music. Sixties, seventies, eighties, Sherlock never really cared to remember, it wasn’t like John had ever quizzed him on the specific decade of the music he liked.

John adored classic vinyl’s, but all the ones from his teenage years had been since sold when Harry cleared out their dad’s house. He could’ve had a player at 221b and rebuilt his collection, Sherlock wouldn’t mind in the slightest, considering John allowed him a plethora of things he probably shouldn’t have been allowed. But by the time the idea crossed the doctors mind, there was a three-year-old toddling around the flat, and fragile records, did not seem like a feasible idea.

So instead he used his phone, and a speaker Lestrade had bought him for his birthday.

His choice this time was a song Sherlock had never heard before.

The doctor was dancing by the sink, bobbing his head, swivelling his hips and tapping his foot in a manner Molly Hooper had dubbed _dad-dancing_.

Sherlock smiled at the sight, hanging his coat up. “Whats going on here then?” He asked, and he and John were both very aware that the phrase was just the English way of saying _What the fuck is this?_

John turned the music down a bit, and turned his head to smile at Sherlock, who was now stood by the draining board, before going back to the dishes. “Don’t ask like you’ve walked in on me murdering somebody, it’s the B-52’s.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, that was certainly a name he’d never heard before, and one he couldn’t pin-point to any region nor time. The Beach Boys had reasoning behind their band name, being Californian and likely surfers. The Beatles were inspired by another band called the Crickets. And so on for most other bands John had listened to in his presence.

So, what the fuck was a Bee fifty-two?

“The what now?” He asked, pushing himself up to sit on the counter, much to John’s chagrin as the older man glared at him, to be fair there had been worse things set on the counter than Sherlock’s clothed bum.

“The B-52’s, they’re a band from the seventies.” He replied, still bobbing his head gently to the rhythm.

Sherlock hummed, trying to contain a smile from watching John dance. If he had it his way, he’d take John’s hands in his own and dance with him. But a waltz in the kitchen to the B-52’s didn’t seem reasonable at this particular moment. “I will never understand your love for old music.” He chose to be analytical instead.

“That’s rich coming from Mozart’s biggest fan.” John quipped back, sticking his tongue out.

“Well that’s classical.”

“And this is new wave.”

“Whatever it is, it’s strange.”

John rolled his eyes, turning up the music with a wet hand covered in suds. “So, hurry up! And bring your jukebox money!” He laughed at the displeasure on Sherlock’s face, before going back to scrubbing a very stubborn pan. “Are you going to help? Or are you just here to criticise my music taste.”

“It wasn’t criticism, I just don’t get it.” Sherlock replied, pushing himself off the counter and routing around the kitchen for a drying cloth.

“I don’t get the violin either, but it sounds nice. Isn’t that the point?”

“Yes, and a man from the seventies yelling about a sex hut sounds so pleasant to the ear.”

“Love Shack, there’s a difference.”

“I don’t see it. This song is utterly ridiculous.” Sherlock replied, incredulous to the fact he was shaking his head along with the melody, a hum threatening to grace his lips. 

John grinned at him. “You’re dancing though, you like it.”

“It’s an earworm, you’ll be humming it all day, I guarantee it.” The detective spoke cunningly, and John rolled his eyes.

Sherlock loved this, how normal it all felt. Normal was boring, yes, but this was _their_ type of normal, which wasn’t really normal at all. Playful banter over his lack of knowledge of pop-culture, the occasional dispute over the danger of an experiment, helping each other complete a menial task. Always with a domestic air, hints of romanticism thrown in here and there, despite the fact that John wasn’t gay. Always before going to pick up John’s daughter, or before going out somewhere with John’s daughter.

Selfishly, not that he’d admit it, he’d begun to refer to Rosie as _their_ daughter. Only in his head. He liked to think of them as a family, a dysfunctional one, but a family nonetheless.

“Like you haven’t had a song stuck in your head ever. I catch you humming all the time.” John replied as the song changed, and the words of yet another singer he didn’t recognise flowed out of the speaker.

“Yes, but that’s Paganini Caprice number one, not- what is this- Frank Sinatra?”

John snorted. “Did you just use the only male singer you know?” Considering he’d never heard of Madonna until he’d seen her name in a paper, it wasn’t really a stretch.

“Yep.”

“Daryl Hall and John Oates. Or just Hall and Oates.” John explained, making a mental note to buy an album to throw at the detective at some point. “Do you ever listen to decent music?”

“I do now, apparently.”

Lestrade ended up having to crash on their sofa that night, after yet another mishap with his wife, hopefully soon-to-be-ex-wife.

Even Sherlock had managed to be nice for the occasion, offering Greg a drink, and even getting his name right the first few times. John offered him some comfort, cracking a few jokes and doing his best to make the situation normal, and Rosie wasn’t shy of hugging the DI until he was smiling.

She insisted on playing one of her games with Greg, which kept him occupied while Sherlock wrapped up the ends of a case, and John filed through some paperwork he had to fill out for the clinic.

The sight of the Detective Inspector playing Guess Who? with their daughter was enough to make him smile from their desk as he glanced up occasionally.

Sherlock loved playing that game with her, of course he claimed he knew who she picked before he even asked any questions (John knew that was a load of bollocks), but he claimed it was a good stimulant for her, as well as developing her speech. She was quite well spoken for her age, but that wasn’t a surprise considering Sherlock never shut the hell up at any given time.

John and Sherlock put Rosie to bed, she’d now insisted that the detective be part of her bedtime routine. John knew she saw Sherlock as a second parental figure, firstly he’d felt guilt, like he’d betrayed Mary, but once he reasoned with himself he decided he didn’t particularly care. Sherlock would do more for her than Mary could, and if anything, he deserved it more than she did, than she ever did.

Once the sequence of goodnight kisses and bedtime stories had been completed, both men retired downstairs to accompany their guest, partaking in the casual drink they usually had around this time anyway.

“Nothing but shite on telly, doubt you’re fond of I’m a Celebrity.” John spoke, surfing through the channels. “Do you want to just stick some music on? I’m sure I have a deck of cards somewhere, if Inspector Gadget hasn’t stabbed it yet.”

Sherlock gave him a pointed look from the kitchen where he was working on something, an experiment, whatever it was it kept him quiet, so John wasn’t about to object to it yet.

Greg nodded. “Sounds like a plan mate.”

“They should be in your room John, if Rosie hasn’t played fifty-two pick-up.” He spoke just loud enough for the doctor to hear, and John was up the stairs, quiet, so not to wake Rosie just yet.

“How do you know that?” Lestrade asked, once John was out of earshot.

Sherlock didn’t look up, knowing the question was directed at him. “What?”

“Fifty-two pick-up. You don’t tend to know things like that.”

“Oh,” Sherlock paused for a moment before shrugging. “I dunno.”

Lestrade didn’t question it any further, taking a sip of the whiskey he kept switching between his hands.

Sherlock knew what it was because John had come home shit-faced after a bad date and insisted on playing a game of cards. He’d dropped his hand when his tremor had kicked in and made a joke about it. _“I guess now we’re playing fifty-two pick-up.”_ He’d laughed in his drunken state, and Sherlock helped him pick up the cards, before ushering him off to bed.

The detective shook his head as if the physical action would shake out the thoughts within it. “Did Mycroft offer?” He asked.

“Offer what?”

“You to stay with him.”

“Erm, no?”

Sherlock hummed, that didn’t make sense, at this point his brother would’ve seen, assuming he still had cameras posted around their flat. If he hadn’t sent the text yet, then Mycroft had just heard him ask, and would probably send it as he realised. Though it was likely that Greg just hadn't opened his phone, considering he was likely to be avoiding calls from his wife and children. “Check your phone. And no, I didn’t tell him. Despite appearing opposed, I don’t mind your company as much as it may seem.”

“Thank you, I think.”

Sure, enough when he turned his phone on there was a text from the elder Holmes. They’d grown a bit closer since the incident with Eurus. Mycroft had to account for the events, and to everyone’s surprise including his, he’d broken down in front of the DI. From that point on, they’d become slightly more intimate, Greg would hazard to say. How Sherlock knew that, he’d never know.

As if on que, John came down the stairs to break the silence. “Got ‘em! You up for a game?” He asked, tossing the deck onto the coffee table.

“What were you thinking? I'm certainly not equipped for poker.”

John laughed, turning the speaker on as he set it on the table, and shuffling the playlist he’d been listening to earlier. “God no, start easy mate, Jack-change-it sound alright?”

“’Course. Sherlock, you playing?”

Sherlock sighed when John caught his eye, silently hoping he’d say yes. “I don’t see why not.” He saw many reasons as to why not, but didn’t listen to any of them, and took a seat on the floor by the coffee table as John dealt him a hand.

Maneater by Hall and Oates started through the speakers, and Sherlock looked up immediately. He recognised it from earlier, unbeknownst to John he’d done a little research, he liked being informed on the things John liked.

“God this is a tune, I haven’t heard this in ages.” Greg smiled at the song, as they began to play the game. “Who does it, a duo innit? Not Chaz and Dave, no, Christ I can’t remember.” He laughed, rubbing a hand over his eyes as he shook his head.

Before John could reply, Sherlock cut in.

“Daryl Hall and John Oates, or just Hall and Oates. Christ, Gordon, don’t you ever listen to good music?” He asked, playing the two of spades to John who glared at him before picking up the cards.

Lestrade gave the doctor a look of question, and John simply shrugged in response, trying desperately to hide a grin. He hadn't expected Sherlock to retain the information.

“Whoah, here he comes.” Greg muttered along with the words, offering John a sly grin.

“Watch out boy, he’ll chew you up.” John replied smiling back. Sherlock still unaware.

They played until late when a black car showed up outside their flat for Greg, who gave them his thanks and bid them goodnight.

“I didn’t think you’d remember that.” John muttered as he set their glasses in the sink. The music was quieter now, so not to wake Mrs Hudson. “Thought you didn’t retain pop-culture.”

Sherlock looked up from his phone, having now migrated from the floor to his chair. “I retain stuff when it matters to you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You like countdown, the women’s names are Rachel and Susie, the hosts name is Nick. You got annoyed at me for getting them wrong every time we watched it. So, I remembered.”

John smiled softly, sitting down in his own chair, across from the detective. “Yet you still called Lestrade, Gordon, earlier.”

“It makes you laugh each time, of course I did.” Sherlock replied with a coy smirk. “You’ve called me inspector gadget before, he’s a cartoon character, he too wears a coat and a ridiculous hat, though he has dog companion rather than a doctor. I watched an episode, so I’d understand.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to. Not good?”

John sniffed, laughing as he rubbed his eyes, realising he’d begun to cry. God dammit, it was always the little things that caught him off guard. “No, it’s good. Quite good.”

“Then why are you crying? Are you okay- I didn’t mean to upset you John, honestly.” Sherlock spoke, panic filling his voice, and he fell from his chair to the floor in front of John, placing his hands on either side of John’s face, studying his expressions, trying to work out what he did wrong.

John didn’t object to the contact, even when Sherlock made the effort to wipe away his tears with his thumb. “No, they’re happy tears, people do that, crying when they’re happy. You’ve done it before.”

“Well yes the hypothalamus reacts to both happiness and sadness but I-“

“You just don’t want to believe that you caused it, that you made me happy. That’s it, isn’t it?” John asked, placing a gentle hand on Sherlock’s face, so they were both holding each other, grounding each other, ensuring that the other didn’t drift away now. “Be honest with me Sherlock.”

There was a moment of gut-wrenching silence, but John waited patiently for a reply. John was always patient. Sherlock knew he had to answer, he knew John would know if he was lying. So, this time he finally had to admit it. “Y-Yes… All I’ve done since I’ve been in your life is bring you misery. For some reason I can’t identify, you stuck around with me all this time. After I fell, after Mary, after Culverton Smith, after Eurus. I ruined your life over and over, yet here you are, and somehow I can still make you smile.”

“I'm surprised you didn’t figure it out. You did the first time we met. I thought you knew the whole time.”

Sherlock frowned, what hadn't he understood? He knew the ins and outs of John’s entire person, he could predict his actions weeks before they even happened, what didn’t he figure out? “What?”

“The reason I'm still here. The reason I put up with you, and all your absurdity. The reason that this place is my home and nowhere else. It’s because I love you, Sherlock. I’m _in_ love with you, rather.” John managed to keep his voice strong, these words were ones he’d repeated in his head since the day he realised what he felt, the words he’d recited aloud by Sherlock’s grave more times than was reasonable.

Except this time, it was to his face, this time he would get a reaction, one he could only hope was good.

The detective looked at a loss for words, which was unlike him, and John would’ve been quite impressed with himself had the circumstances been different. “How do we progress from there?” Sherlock asked simply.

“However you want. You can accept, decline, reciprocate. A plethora of possibilities. But its up to you, because I can’t make you do anything you don’t want.”

Sherlock didn’t kiss him, he didn’t confess his undying love for the doctor, he didn’t pin him to the wall and take him there and then. No. That wasn’t Sherlock.

Sherlock worked at his own pace, worked with what he knew. So rather than any of that, he stood up, and offered John a hand up from his chair. John took it, and the moment he was upright, his face was pressed against Sherlock’s chest.

Gently first his arms wound around Sherlocks waist, gripping the soft fabric of his dressing gown. He could feel Sherlock’s mouth against the top of his head, pressing a kiss to his hair.

“You can hold me firmer than that, I’m not made of glass.” Sherlock muttered, John smiled into the fabric of his shirt, and held him as close as physics allowed. The detective was warm, the glow in his chest had sparked into a full-blown fire.

Yet all they were doing was hugging in their living room.

“When I pretended with Janine, I didn’t know what I was doing, I thought love was tiring, a burden, another thing I’d have to worry about. I realised only after I hurt her that it wasn’t love, that love was selfless, not selfish. I realised that I’d been in love for years, and that it had never taxed me, nor tired me. In fact, it was the thing that kept me going. So, I think it goes without saying that I love you in return.” Sherlock’s voice was low, soft and gentle to the ear, and John smiled. “Would it be too far to ask you to join me in bed this evening? To sleep, I mean, don’t panic.” He pulled away from John to look at him, and the warmth that had flooded John’s body melted away, leaving him wanting it again.

“I’d be honoured.” The doctor replied, staring up at the detective, deep blue locking seafoam green. “But first, I’d really like to kiss you, if you’d let me.”

Sherlock smiled gently, leaning down so his lips met John’s in a long overdue kiss. It was soft, slow, warm. His hands remained still on John’s waist, but the doctor’s hands migrated upward into Sherlock’s hair, fingers running soothingly through the curls.

The tightness in his chest he’d become used to, suddenly unravelled and for the first time in a long time he felt at peace.

They ended up in Sherlock’s bed. Sherlock was topless and John bottomless, save for his boxers. The detective was lying on his front, he had his cheek rested against John’s shoulder where the bullet wound was under his t-shirt, one hand resting against John’s chest and the other sprawled out somewhere else. John lay on his back, one arm around Sherlock, tracing patterns over the scars the detective had from his time spent away, doing everything to dismantle the crime web. His other hand rested on top of Sherlock’s interlocking their fingers loosely from behind.

It was in this moment that they both began to realise just how much the other had gone through for him. It was in this moment that they started to appreciate that for what it was.

It was nice. It was warm. It felt like home.

All of a sudden Sherlock let out a groan of annoyance.

“What?” John laughed at the abruptness.

“I told you that song was an earworm.” Sherlock replied. “It’s even worse because I didn’t bother to learn the words.”

In response John sang a little bit of the first verse, quietly and slightly off key but Sherlock smiled at the gesture.

After a few more moments of silence, John laughed.

“What?”

“If this is the place we got together, does that make 221b the Love Shack?”

“Don’t you _dare_ begin to call it that, or so _help_ me John Watson.”

“What will you do, _Sherlock_ _Holmes_?”

“Absolutely no idea, go to sleep.”

“I love you too.”


End file.
